


Cracked

by Mousewrites



Category: due South
Genre: Anal Sex, Crack, Eggs, First Time, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mile High Club, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mousewrites/pseuds/Mousewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exciting Egg Adventures! A case-of-the-week, Fuck or Die challenge fic, as Due Southy as I could make it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracked

I’m insane. I must be. There is no other explanation.  
  
None. Not one. No sane person would be in this situation.  
  
Life with Fraser. I should be used to it by now, but I’m surprised every freakin’ time.  
  
Like now. His mouth is hot and slick on mine, and our hands, my right bound to his, his left to mine, hold tight. He’s managed to get my shirt up, and the back of his hand brushes my nipple. Back, and forth, and back again, the faint soft hair prickling against my skin.  
  
I moan into his mouth, and he breaks the kiss, pulling back a bit. White flash of teeth, and then he leans down as if to nibble on my ear. I turn my head, giving him whatever he wants.  
  
“You’re doing well, Ray,” he whispers, licking over my skin, “They’re all completely entranced. I’m going to make the first move, now. Be ready.”  
  
The first move? I think we’re up to at least second base, Frase, I say in my head, but all I can do is stutter out a groan as he nips my neck, ropes pulling my arms down as he fists his hands in my jacket and pulls us over backward, somehow turning so he’s on the bottom, our hands held together above his head. The vibration from the engine isn’t as strong when I’m not laying against the cold metal of the cargo bay, and I shift my shoulders, making it look like I’m holding Fraser’s wrists down harder.  
  
One of the thugs (the one with the biggest gun) hoots something about me being an aggressive little fuck, and I snarl over at him before Fraser’s whispered words call me back to our playacting.  
  
“Don’t look at them. Look at me. At me, Ray,” and how could I not? His lips were bruised, not from my lips, but from the fists of the men that held us captive. His hair stuck up oddly, small bits of hay and wood still caught there from our headlong dash out of the chicken farm. Who knew that egg smuggling was such big business?  
  
Organic eggs, Fraser said, Big money, he said. And then he used words like rescue, and for the good of mankind, and civic duty, and somehow we ended up here, trapped in a tiny airplane, surrounded by stolen eggs and mean looking, scruffy men who, apparently, enjoyed a good peep show.  
  
Hee. Peep show.  
  
Shit, egg humor. We have to get out of this plane.  
  
Which, of course, is where the Plan comes in.  
  
The Plan. He’s always got a Plan. Most of them don’t call for us to pretend to make out for the amusement of skuzzy men, though. Granted, the other option is to wait for the plane to get to the ‘perfect place, they’ll never find the bodies if we drop them in  _there_.’  
  
I’ll take what’s behind door number Big Red Mounty, thank you kindly.  
  
He’s looking up at me, eyes gone faintly worried, and I realize I’ve been staring down at his face, blankly, for a while. I blink, and lean down slowly, finding his lips. My eyes slide shut, and I taste him, all salt sweat and kind of hay-ey from where he was tasting things back at the coop, and I kiss him harder, actually slipping my tongue into his mouth. He stiffens for a moment, but then I feel the slick touch of his tongue to mine.  
  
See, I know we’re pretending here. I know  that.  I’m just playing my part. It’s what I do, right? Slip into a role, become someone else, and this Someone Else just happens to be making out with Fraser, a guy, his partner, and it shouldn’t be sweet and hot and maybe Somebody Else is gay, but he’s not.  
  
And neither is Fraser, right?  
  
Right?  
  
Fraser’s worked one hand up between us again, his fingers touching my throat, drumming lightly, and I shift because the kissing is fantastic, stupendous, and I’m getting hard in my jeans. I don’t want to, but I am, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to just lay here with a boner and not move away from him. As much as this is bug-fuck weird for me, it’s got to be twice as bad for Fraser; he’s got all the exhibitionist tendencies of… well, something not exhibitionist-y. Shy, that’s what I’m saying. He’s shy, and this sex in public thing-  
  
Hold up. Not sex, just… making out.  
  
I pushed this to a different level when I stuck my tongue in his mouth a second ago. Just isn’t kissing without some tongue action. But it’s all for show. For… realism? Veri-something? Yeah. That thing. To make it look good. That’s all. And boy, he’s good at it. I’ve got beard burn along my lips, my jaw, and he’s just going to town on my neck now, his mouth open and hot, his tongue sliding down to lap at the hollow of my throat. I moan, I can’t help  it, and he stops for a second, and I tighten my hands on his without thinking about it.  
  
“Ray,” he says, his voice soft and a bit horse, and them I’m kissing him, attacking his lips, and I hear/feel him gasp into my mouth, and I just eat the sound away. Play acting, that’s all. I’m… just getting into my role. My role, his mouth, and god, it’s good. It’s so good.  
  
The thug makes another comment, and I pull back, my head swimming. Right. The audience. I shake my head, trying to focus on the Plan. But to do that I have to trust Fraser, because I don’t know the whole plan, I only know the ‘pretend to make out’ part, and if this is pretending to make out with Fraser, the real thing’d kill me.  
  
Not that this won’t kill me. I’m still not real clear how making out in front of Big Joe Bob of Big Joe Bob’s Farm Fantastic Fresh Eggs is going to get us out of this plane. Not that the real Big Joe Bob is watching, because he’s the guy with the handlebar mustache in the front of the plane. Na, all we got is the little Joe Bob-etts, the trio of big muscley thug-types that always seem to follow big bad guys. Nope, not sure how this is going to help. But…  
  
God help me, I trust him. He says jump, I say how high? OK, actually I say, “Are you fucking nuts, Fraser? That’s gotta be thirty feet! There is NO way you’re making me jump. No way. Not happening,” and then I jump anyway.  
  
So if he says “Kiss me,” I just…do it.  
  
Do him, because he’s using his bound hands to tug me back down, and his cheeks are pink. He goes for my ear again, and I jump when he whispers into my ear instead of licking it.   
  
“One more roll, Ray, and we’re in position. But I’ve got to,” and he stops, his throat working as he swallows. I can feel his Adam’s apple against my skin. “Just go along with it, alright? It’s the only thing I can think of.”  
  
And I nod, just a bit, and hiss “Yes,” for good measure when he nips at my ear, and then he’s all movement and were rolling again, hard, and he’s making this kind of loud snarl sound I’ve never heard from him, ever. He’s moving us fast, and I think for a moment we’re going to spring up and attack the guards but we’re going the wrong way. We smack hard into a stack of egg crates, and he’s got me half sitting up, pushed against them, his face red. He pushes out bound hands harder above my head, as if he’s holding me down. He leans in, taking my mouth again, and I can feel his tongue, pushing into my mouth this time, and he pulls back just enough to mouth “fight me” against my wet lips.  
  
I blink, furrowing my eyebrows, and he slams my hands into the crate, and ow, that hurt. “Fight me!” he mouths again, and his eyes are serious.  
  
I rip my head away, my lips twisting up into a familiar sneer. “Fucking hell, that hurt,” I say, trying to pull my arms down.  
  
“So?” he says, slamming them back again, “You’ve never minded pain before,” and whoa, where did that voice come from? Fraser doesn’t sound like that, all sex-hot and angry. His face was weird, too, screwed up into some kind of mean looking smile-type thing. He was… not Fraser.  
  
Or he was, and he wasn’t a Mounty, and I had no idea what my next line was. It was like a test I hadn’t studied for. But hell, I’d done enough undercover gigs that I knew how to take care of myself when I’m hit with a pop-quiz. I pull left, then right, and yank my hand down to push at his face. His other hand catches the rope before I can touch him.  “Let go, man. I don’t care what the heck I’ve done before, this is now.”  
  
“And if I don’t? Maybe I want to hold you down, Detective. If we’re going to die up here, I want at least one chance on top.” My brain shorts for a second with that image. Gah.  His face is turned toward me, but I can feel him fumbling with the rope as our hands. The goons are leaning closer, eyes shining with lust. His eyes shoot down to our hands and then at the men, and I get it. Diversion. Make the argument so interesting that they don’t notice the hands.   
  
“Screw you!” I say, “You don’t get to be on top, now or ever! Not an option.”   
  
“Is that so?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s so, Mr. Mounty. You’re the bitch in this relationship. You're  _Canadian_.”  
  
His fingers loosen the ropes, and his eyes meet mine. Then he’s pushing me again, hard into the crates, yelling something that I’m pretty sure is obscene, but also pretty sure isn’t English, so it could have been the recipe for moose cacciatore, and it didn’t matter because the crates of eggs are toppling over backwards, taking us with it. I end up on my back, Fraser pressed into the front of me, the crates holding us up for a long moment before collapsing with a sucking wet crunch. Goo splashing everywhere, slicking the floor and we slide on the flood, legs flailing, into another stack. Fresh organic eggs fall from the sky like bombs, bursting on us and around us, and it hurts, kind of, and is funny and we are still fighting like cats, rolling in broken eggs.  
  
I laugh manically.  
  
We come to rest near the back of the plane, against stacks of equipment the goons had moved to make room for the eggs. The goons…  
  
I turn my head, wiping eggshells off my forehead with my arm. They are staring at us in shock, guns held in limp hands, splattered in egg. Mr. Big Joe Bob stands in the open doorway to the cockpit, a broken egg hanging off his handlebar mustache.   
  
We all stop. Big Joe Bob has a big Joe gun, and it’s pointed right at us.  
  
“What the hell is going on back here? Ovis?” he says, brushing the egg off his face. His goons slide around to face him; their voices no more steady then their feet in all this egg.  
  
“Um, see boss, they were, uh…” Ovis gestures vaguely, and the motion causes him to slide a bit sideways.  
  
“Kissing, see? And then the big one started pushing the little one around-” The second goon falls over trying to help the first one steady himself.  
  
“No, Shelby, the little fucker started it, ‘cause he won’t bottom, and that isn’t very fair,” says the third, trying to brace the other two and failing miserably. The three go down in a heap.  
  
“Yeah, and so they knocked over some eggs,” someone says from the pile, and Big Joe Bob sighs and holsters his gun.  
  
“Christ. What a mess. And all because somebody’s a bit too concerned with roles, eh?” he squints at us, and I suddenly have a terrible feeling in my gut.  
  
“Boys, I think that we should help our big friend out. After all, his last request is certainly in our power to grant, eh? I think we should make his wish come true.” He motions the goons closer, and they slide in a heap toward their boss.  
  
Great. Fraser’s fairy godmother is a big hairy guy with a gun. Typical.  
  
I glance at Fraser, and he glances at me, and there is something in his eyes, and I realize that things are probably not exactly going according to the Plan. I lean up toward him, touching my sticky forehead to his.  
  
“Whatever. It was a good plan, Frase,” I murmur, ‘cause whatever was going to happen, I’m sure it had been a good Plan. They always were. Ok, no, some of them sucked like bad pizza, but even bad pizza is better than none.  
  
You know what I mean?  
  
He is tugging at the ropes again, and I think he’s getting them off, and we are gonna fight for it, but I realize he was tightening them, and good thing, too, because Ovis figures out how to move in the inch thick coating of egg, and slides towards us, the other two quickly behind.  
  
What follows is a confusing smear of hands and egg and rope and cussing, and I think that I might have bitten somebody at some point, because at the end of it I have the grit of eggshells in my mouth.  
  
I’ve also lost my pants somewhere along the line.  
  
They’ve retied us, back to front, with him behind me. Fraser’s still got his pants on, I can tell, because the wool of his uniform pants is itching along the backs of my thighs. But… not all the way on. There’s no wool against my ass, and I realize his shirt is gone, too. His hands cup the back of mine, and I’m kind of shaking. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, tightening the drying egg.  
  
Big Joe Bob smiles at us, kind of creep-brotherly, and ducks back into the cockpit, slamming the door behind him.  
  
The egg boys sit carefully, brushing eggs and eggshells off their pants. “Well,” Ovis says, “Get going. We’ve done all we’re going to do.”  
  
Fraser turns his head slowly. “You expect us to copulate while you watch?”  
  
“Ooooh, Mr. big words. Yeah, I expect you to ‘cop-you-late’ while we watch. You were all set to go a few minutes ago. Or was that all just show? Mebby you were after one of us? Or maybe you were hatching some kind of plan?” He rubs his thumb along the edge of his gun.   
  
“Shut up, Shelby. We’re makin’ him nervous. I mean, if you were gonna die in like fifteen minutes, wouldn’t you want one last fling with your sweetheart? You go right ahead. We’ll be over here, uh, playing cards.”  
  
Jesus. Sweet wounded Jesus. Fraser leans close again, his lips touching my ear. “Ray, they’re still watching.”  
  
“So,” I say softly, “it doesn’t matter. We’ve got fifteen minutes till they kill us. We might as well sit here naked, covered in egg. We don’t have to pretend to make out anymore…”  
  
He shifts against me, and I realize that his pubic hair is glued to my ass with egg. Great. What a dignified way to die. I hope nobody finds our bodies. Ever. My luck would be somebody finding our skeletal remains in a thousand years and the headlines would read " _21st century egg fetishist remains found! DNA evidence IDs them as Stanley Kowalski and gay lover!"_ and my descendents would have to move to Aruba.  
  
He shifts again, and his hand pulls mine out of sight behind a bag. His fingers touch something, and he makes a little pleased sound.  
  
He guides us over onto our sides, spooning up behind me. One set of arms are stretched out, still buried behind the bag. The other one curls around me as if we are sleeping.  
  
This… is actually kind of nice. His arm is big, and warm, and even if I’m naked from the waist down and am covered in eggs and about to die horribly, at least-  
  
No, fuck that. I don’t want to die. I don't want to be a weird headline in the future. “Fraser,” I whisper, turning my head so my arm blocks me from the egg goons, “Will the Plan still work?”  
  
I can see his lips, barely, and they break into a smile. “I think so, Ray, but… With our clothes in such disarray, it’ll be much harder to pull off the charade.”  
  
“If our choices are this and death, I’ll take this,” I say, and he nods against my head.   
  
“Alright. Well, as we’re in… an untenable position, I suppose…” and he trails off, moving his head to my shoulder, kissing at the egg-shiny skin. He makes a bit of a face. “Or not. Well, if that won’t work, perhaps…” and his other hand,  _our_ hand slides down, his fingertips over mine touching my stomach through the shirt, moving lower and lower, and a flush of heat fills me as I realize that yes, he’s going to touch me.  
  
And he does, trailing our hand up and down my naked thigh, scratching lightly at the skin. Somehow my thighs aren’t covered in egg, and his fingers are warm. Up, down, up again, dipping under the overhang of my shirt, brushing my nuts.  
  
Fraser. Touching my nuts.  
  
Wham, I’m hard. Damn near instantly. No way to hide it, not from Fraser, not from the egg goons. He stills for a moment, and I feel his lips against my hair. It feels like he says “God, Ray,” but my brain is burning, and I’m not sure. Up again, and he slowly wraps his hand around me. I bury my head in my arm, and I can feel his other hand, the  _not touching my dick_   hand, busy with whatever out of sight. I’m frozen, not moving at all, and they goons look over at me, one of them muttering that I don’t look like I’m enjoying myself, and a spurt of fear makes me jerk a bit.  
  
“Shhh, Ray,” he says. He strokes me lightly, back and forth, and he just can’t stay silent, no matter what he told me, and sure enough, he starts to speak, his voice warm in my ear. “It’s alright. It’s alright. They don’t matter; it’s just you and me and this, and you can move, it’s ok.”  
  
His voice pulls me out of the cold place I am in, and I feel his hand, warm around me, and his lips, still talking, talking, talking, and I just kind of go with it. I feel… good, warm and almost safe, his hand stroking me gently.  
  
One of the goons says something, and Shelby moves, sitting closer. “I want to watch, and I can see from here,” I hear him say, and all the warmth drains out of the moment.  
  
Shelby picks up an egg, rolling it back and forth between his hands. “Here, big guy, you can use this for slick,” and he tosses the egg at us. Somehow Fraser gets our tied arms up, and we catch the egg, my fingers closing over it just hard enough that it doesn’t break. We should play outfield. Shelby looks at us expectantly.   
  
“Ray,” Fraser says slowly into my ear, and I know what he’s going to say, I  _know_ it, and I shake my head.  
  
“Just do it, Fraser. I. Just do it. We’ll be ok.” And I can feel him nod again, and things go… surreal.  
  
Surely I’m not really tied to Fraser, half naked, about to have sex, GAY sex, while some sick egg smuggling motherfuckers watch? Surely not… but Fraser’s breaking the egg carefully, picking out stray egg shells, and he pulls our hands down, in between us, and yes, he’s touching me, gently, rubbing cool slick egg onto my ass, and my brain just shuts down.  
  
It’s been a very long time since anyone’s touched me there, but apparently ass sex is like riding a bicycle; the first couple of times you do it, that stupid seat makes you walk funny for days, but then it’s natural to just open up and take Fraser’s egg coated fingers-  
  
Wait, that makes no sense. But neither does any of this, and his fingers are sliding into me gently, and my dick is suddenly interested in the whole situation again, and Fraser’s whispering into my neck, but I can’t hear him because the blood is roaring in my ears.  
  
My arm is aching, at an odd angle, and I make some little pained noise as he tries to go deeper. “Ow. My arm…angle.”   
  
And he gets it, of course he does, and slides those fingers out and moves  us so he’s sitting with his back against a large, bulky bag, and he kind of… organizes me so I’m kneeling above him, facing away. I can see the goons out of the corner of my eye, and know they can see everything.  
  
At which point I realize that he’s hard, and I’m about to be fucked by my partner for an audience in the belly of a plane full of stolen organic eggs. I pause, feeling Fraser’s hands holding mine, and his lips press into the back of my tee shirt. “The Plan, Ray, it’s… It’s all right. I swear,” and I trust him.  
  
God help me.  
  
I shut my eyes tight, concentrating on Fraser’s hands, and start to lower myself down. I can feel just the head of Fraser’s dick start to slip into me when the plane lurches, making me lose my balance, and I sit down hard on him. Fraser gasps, his hands clenching onto mine.  
  
I yelp, loudly, and there’s all this noise suddenly as the cockpit slams open and Big Joe Bob is yelling about engine trouble and the goons are trying to get up and scramble for something but I don’t care, I don’t, because Fraser’s dick is inside me, big and hard and it hurts, hurts, and his hands are pulling mine backwards awkwardly.  
  
“Ray,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the noise, “Its time, Ray.” And he’s moving, his hips shifting and I throw my head back, the pain hot and my dick’s still hard. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, but his hands are moving, up around me, and I feel straps, belts or something, come down over my shoulder, up under my arms.  
  
He clicks something together across my stomach, my chest, and then he pulls our hands back, over our heads, and his legs come up around me, hooking under my knees.  
  
The goons turn toward us just as my fingers brush cold metal, and everything, everything is suddenly forgotten, the eggs and the goons and Fraser’s dick in my ass as I look up and watch in disbelief as we pull the emergency exit handle and the whole door just disengages, coming off in our hands, and the wind is incredible as we fall, fall out of the plane, and I watch Shelby’s surprised face get smaller and smaller as the sky gets bigger.  
  
Fraser’s yelling, yelling, and I can’t breathe, watching the plane get smaller, and I know I’m going to die as we tip over backwards, and I see the ground far beneath me, the sun shining of the surface of Lake Michigan, and I panic completely.  
  
I try to flail, to kick, to do anything to fight the pull of gravity that is sucking me down. Fraser’s got my hands, though, and my legs are wrapped in his, and every time I move I can feel him, still inside me. Still hard.  
  
And I realize that I am too. Adrenaline pumping through my body, my stomach full of it, and I’m screaming, laughing, my words snatched away from my lips as soon as I say them.  
  
Fraser’s hands move, up to my chest, and I think for a wild moment he’s trying to get my nipple, but he’s going for a ring on straps, pulling it, hard, and there’s a schussing sound, and he yells “Hang on, Ray!” as the parachute opens above us with a sound like the worlds biggest flag snapping in the wind.  
  
We jerk as the wind catches the parachute, and his dick is forced even deeper inside of me. I grunt. The world slows down again.  
  
Now that the wind has died to a dull roar, and we’re not falling to our death, and there’s no goons pointing big guns at me, I can relax… or I could if I wasn’t half naked, being fucked by my Mounty partner as we fly though the air under a…I look up to check, yup, a parachute shaped like a hatching egg.  
  
My life is insane.  
  
Fraser’s hands hold mine tight to the straps of the parachute, and he rests his chin on my shoulder. “Ray?” he says, hesitantly.  
  
“Yeah, Frase?” I’m calm. I’m calm like still water, like an empty ball field, like … ice fishing. Yeah. Like that.  
  
“I’m… I’m sorry I couldn’t think of a better plan.”  
  
“Well… This one was OK. I mean, we’re not dead, yet, right?”  
  
“Correct.”  
  
“And, uh, we’ve got a parachute, that’s pretty good evidence, right?”  
  
“And all the egg matter. There’s a very good chance that we’ll have enough DNA to prove our case.”  
  
“Great. That’s… Greatness. Job well done. Case closed.”  
  
“Well, no, not exactly, Ray, we’ve still got to convince ADA Kowl-”  
  
“Fraser?”  
  
“Yes Ray?”  
  
“Shut up and fuck me, will ya? I’m never going to have another chance to be fucked while skydiving.”  
  
His hands close over mine, gently, and his hips move. He breathes out against my neck.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know, Ray, I have quite a few friends with airplanes up in Yellowknife.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He nods, and then I drift for a while, watching the whole world come up to meet my feet.  
  
Yup, insanity. It’s the only rational explanation.


End file.
